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Sunday, December 27, 2015

I remember all of the things that I thought I wanted to beSo desperate to find a way out of my world and finally breatheRight before my eyes I saw, my heart it came to lifeThis ain't easy it's not meant to beEvery story has it's scars

When the pain cuts you deepWhen the night keeps you from sleepingJust look and you will seeThat I will be your remedyWhen the world seems so cruelAnd your heart makes you feel like a foolI promise you will seeThat I will be, I will be your remedy

No river is too wide or too deep for me to swim to youCome whatever I'll be the shelter that won't let the rain come throughYour love, it is my truthAnd I will always love youLove you--"Remedy"--

A couple of months ago we had an honest, vulnerable discussion about walls built within marriage.

I knew when he spoke, he saw me--for one of the first times in a long time, I felt understood on a deep level. I knew when he saw me, it was a cross roads. I could either admit the hard things I didn't want to admit, or pretend they didn't exist, hoping for them to disappear. But I know things like this don't just "disappear."

I see couples in Hollywood crumble all over the place. Sometimes I wonder about them--why can't they hang on? Is it because they didn't know each other well enough? Is it because they didn't know themselves well enough? Is it because their work requires them to be apart for long periods of time? Is their foundation not strong enough to withstand the distance? Or did they merely stop needing each other, because they couldn't--because physically they weren't there to BE there for one another?

Ben and I are no Hollywood couple, far from it. But we are a couple built inside of 2 years of a solid, happy, loving foundation followed by 2 years of extremely stressful, fearful parenting, followed by 1 year of traumatic, chaotic group home managing, followed by 7 years of separating grad school living combined with three more amazing, yet needy children.

These things take tolls on individuals, which in turn take tolls on marriages--there is no way around that. Our needs as humans had been put on the back burners for so long there have been days/weeks/months/years we had forgotten we even HAD any needs. Our marriage also had needs we had forgotten, not because the love has not been there....they've been forgotten more because there had not been the space to take care of it. And honestly? We took for granted the two solid years of foundation we had built in the beginning. Our love, happiness with each other, and strong friendship and respect for one another could withstand any storm, we believed.

So far, that has worked. I truly feel if our foundation had not been as strongly built from our beginning, we would have crumbled like so many we see and hear about.

Yet we remain standing, though the stress and time apart has taken its toll.

I am a firm believer when the rope of marriage begins to fray, it takes each person to work individually on their end of the rope before they can work on things together. We are complex humans, bringing lives together that are full of two entirely separate experiences, strengths, weaknesses, needs and emotions.

But individual work is scary, isn't it? It's so much easier to blame the whole of the sum instead of the parts, when those parts are made up of yourself and the person you love most in the world. It's easier to blame a baby with seizures, and teenagers with rage issues, and grad school with its so many demands, and financial struggles leading to multiple jobs, and young children with their neediness and moving 14 times.

I know what it means to look in the mirror--really look--and realize I have personally contributed to my own unhappiness, my own loneliness, my own fears. It is extremely vulnerable, painful, honest work. Ben also knows this individual work and what it means to look in this same mirror, owning his parts.

As painful and scary and hard as this work is, it is also the work of Healing.

I have seen the ends of our individually frayed ropes begin to heal, as we each pulled apart layer after layer of our own experiences to get down to the core. I have never been more proud of myself, or Ben, than when we are working this way. We have allowed one another to see each other in our most vulnerable places, and a love I never could have imagined has grown from seeing each other like this. As individuals, we watched ourselves begin to Rebuild, and we were each other's cheerleaders and best support system. Once the two pieces of our marriage had begun healing, we then needed to work on the sum of our parts.

So when it came to that crossroads a few months ago, looking at him in our dimly lit kitchen around 2 am, I chose to let him see me again.

As much as I want to be that perfect wife, I know I never will be, because I am not perfect. As much as he wants to be that perfect husband, he knows he will not be.

But that night we laid our offerings of who we actually ARE, on the sacrificial table of marriage, again. With our strengths, weaknesses, hopes, needs, and love for ourselves and each other.

We promised during our 13th year, it was no longer the time for rebuilding ourselves individually, it is now the time for Rebuilding Our Marriage. We have talked about what that looks like for each of us, with an understanding that it will take time. As quickly as the Crumbling appears to happen--it doesn't, not really. It's something that is slowly picked apart and chipped at, until finally a cornerstone has been worn thin enough to fall, taking the entire structure with it.

Rebuilding is a process of picking up one piece at a time, with the hope there will now be extra support built in surrounding it now, after we know better, after the individual Healing has taken place. It takes patience, and heavy lifting at times, and always--that constant self-check of fear and needs and individual vulnerability and honesty.

Some may read this and think it might be a depressing Happy Anniversary! post. But I feel the complete opposite. I am so proud of us, and of our marriage. Weaker people and weaker love would not have been able to even get to this point. We are still here together, after the dust has settled, picking up our pieces and Rebuilding. We are still laughing and holding hands, and looking at each other with a newfound admiration and strength in our love that did not exist before the Crumbling.

Thirteen years of being married to this incredibly strong, good man. Thirteen years of being the one he comes home to. Thirteen years of feeling his warmth on the other side of the bed, of wrapping his arms around mine.

I love you, Ben Strader. Ours is a courageous Love Story. And I'm so grateful we have chosen each other all over again. Here's to our 13th year.

Last year, on an overcast but warm afternoon in February, the front door of the Grey House swung open, then closed with more force than usual. Caleb was home from school. "Hey buddy, how was the hike?" I asked. Today was the 4th grade hike he'd been looking forward to."It was HARD. I'm never going hiking again!" he replied, with a lot of emotion behind his words. "What happened?" I asked, but wasn't too worried. Caleb is an emotional kid, and sometimes just needs to get the big emotions out by venting, then can see through them a little more clearly."It just was hard, and I hated it. And I'm never going again!" he repeated, yelling this time. I asked a couple more questions but he still didn't open up, so I dropped the subject and moved on. Today was Leah's 6th birthday, and we were going to go out to celebrate. I asked Caleb to get his homework done and clean his room, then get ready to go to the restaurant.Normally he would react well to going to his favorite place to eat, it would be a motivator to get him to stay on task and move quickly. Not today. His foul mood continued and affected anyone who crossed his path. He complained with the small things I asked him to do, he purposely looked for ways to bug his sisters, and he wasn't just teasing Leah--he was picking on her and criticizing her. Each time he did, I stopped him, telling him to change his behavior or earn a consequence. When he continued, I pulled him aside, reminding him of how he had treated Leah last year on her birthday. He had been so kind to her, and so thoughtful and fun, and it had meant the world to her. I asked him to try harder to remember this is the one day a year that's just for her. I also asked him if anything else was wrong--did something happen with his friends? Did he do poorly on his spelling test? Was he tired? He said "No" to all of these. In the past when Caleb has treated her this way, we've been able to trace it back to an experience that's recently happened that has made him feel really insecure or embarrassed. He takes those insecurities out on her until we can get to the root of the problem and talk about what is really bugging him. "Okay, well I'm here to talk with you if you want me to. But if you don't want to that's fine, but we do not deserve to be treated the way you're treating us. If there isn't anything else wrong then your behavior needs to change. Now." I said firmly. We all got in the van and drove to the restaurant. While we were being seated, Caleb refused to sit by Leah, saying she always had to sit next to him. The look on Leah's face was enough, she was devastated. I gave him the stink eye and told him with a low voice to sit down and knock it off. He stayed quiet, but inched over to the edge of his chair.We ordered our food and while waiting for it, began the tradition we have on birthdays, to go around the table and everyone says what they love about the person we're celebrating. We went around, and then it came time for Caleb's turn. He gave a half-hearted, generic answer, and wouldn't look at Leah when he said it. I watched him inch away from her again. That was IT.Ben was talking with the girls when I leaned over the table and with my voice two octaves lower than normal said,"One more thing, Caleb. If you do or say one more unkind thing to your sister on her birthday, you and I are taking Dad's car and you're going home to bed. I have been as patient as I can be. If this weren't her birthday, I would not feel so upset right now. But she does NOT deserve this and you are not stopping. When you act this way and can't control it, you're telling me you're too tired and you just need to go to bed."Then.He looked at me from across the table, and his face just crumpled. Tears spilled onto his cheeks and he began to sob. "Buddy, come here," I said with my voice softened. He walked around the table and stood next to me. "What is it? Please tell me, I'm here for you."And then it all came tumbling out, in between sobs."The hike was so hard, Mom. SO hard. My legs ached and kept shaking so hard that I kept falling, and my group left me--the only one that stayed with me was the mom of one of the kids, because she felt bad for me. I was so slow, I could barely make it. I was the last kid up the mountain. By the time I got to where we were supposed to eat lunch, everyone was already eating and most of them were finished. I was so tired and wanted to turn around but I couldn't. I fell over and over again, even wearing my good shoes. It was so embarrassing, and I felt so stupid and slow."My heart broke. As he cried, I did too. I hugged him tightly, saying,"Oh Caleb, I am so sorry and am so glad you told me. I had no idea. I don't know why your group didn't stay with you, and I wish they had. But more than anything? I am SO proud of you. So, so proud. (I could barely speak because I was crying so hard at this point.) The other kids don't know what it feels like to be in your body, with your muscles. They don't know what it takes for you to make it up that mountain. But I do, and your dad does. We know the tightness of your muscles that makes it so much more difficult, and that your legs tremble when they're working hard. We know how far you've come, and how you have to work twice as hard to keep up with others. The thing is? You don't look different. And while that's a blessing most days, today made things more lonely for you. If you had crutches, or a wheelchair, or were still wearing the orthotic casts you used to have to wear, people would know, because they would be able to see the difference. And I'm guessing that if the kids in your group knew, then they would have stayed with you.But the fact that you didn't quit--that you finished, you got up to the top of that mountain and you made it all the way back down, it proves again to me just how strong you are on the inside, regardless of your body's strength on the outside. You did it, without the help of anyone. Just you and God, getting up that mountain together. I know today feels like it was an awful day (Caleb nodding his head fiercely), but I have a feeling that you're going to look back on this day as one that was a turning point for you. One where you can feel proud of not quitting, regardless of how hard it was. You have yet again made me feel so grateful, and lucky, and blessed, and proud to be YOUR mom."I held him while he cried for another minute, then calmed down. The rest of the night he was back to his normal happy self and treated Leah amazing.Watching his tears fall in the restaurant, I found myself in a strange place as a mother of a kid with an almost unseen disability. For over two full years, Caleb's disability was obvious. But once he learned to walk and his seizures stopped, he just kept moving forward. He's on the small side still, but unless you look closely or know what you're looking for, you can't see his struggle. Physical therapists spot it right away and ask, but other than that, most are surprised to find out he has Cerebral Palsy. I have been amazed at how his body has grown, and how he has compensated from his earlier days. I've been grateful he hasn't had to live life in casts, or with his walker. But with this hike, I realized I was almost wishing he did look different, and stand out in some way, so others would know and be more sensitive to it. Then I caught myself--what kind of a mother wishes for their kid to have more challenges than they already do?? After we were home and the kids were in bed, I told Ben about Caleb's hike. As I told him, I could feel the Mama Bear in me rising. I had purposely written on Caleb's consent form for the hike that he has CP--even though his teacher already knew that, I wanted to give her a reminder. I wrote that he tired easily and had less endurance than the other kids his age. Why didn't she give him a hiking buddy? Why wasn't there more supervision over the groups staying together? Why didn't they start out with the slowest kids in the front, like they do in Boy Scouts? I wanted to protect him from feeling the way he had that day, but I couldn't--it had already happened. So getting angry seemed to be the best secondary option. I wanted to write her an email that night, giving her my very strong opinion of disapproval at the way my son had been treated. From the time we first knew something was wrong with Caleb, I worried about moments just like this one. I did not know how I could bear having him hurt, or made fun of, or left behind. I wanted to protect him from any heartache. A few years ago, I realized that if I did protect him from all of it, I was holding him back from the opportunity to grow. I knew the best thing I could do for him was to let him fall and teach him how to get back up, and support him by being there for him, loving him, and teaching him how to love himself.

I believe every moment--good and bad--is a teaching opportunity when it comes to my kids. And I know my son. He was born with a fire in his belly, a big fun personality, and a spirited, competitive side. He was also born with a body that has set limits on what he can do, so his spirit and his body are in a constant state of battle with each other. The problem is, he's so competitive with himself that when there is a physical feat standing in his way, he just wants to avoid it all together. If he can't physically be where he pictures in his mind he should be, or if he's set up to compete one-on-one against someone bigger/stronger, he doesn't want to try. We have been through this many times.If he's on a team, he'll go for it because the spotlight isn't on him. But if he could potentially fail on his own, or look slow or weak--then he digs his feet in and refuses to budge. Ben and I have had to learn how to navigate this. We are still learning. We want to work within his limits and be sensitive to them, while also pushing him to just do the best he can do and not give up. I didn't send the email. Instead I decided to sit with all of this for a couple of days and see how I felt after the weekend was over. The more I thought about this hike, the more important I felt mine and Ben's reaction to it was. We could either make this a big Victim moment for Caleb, or a big Victory moment. If I really believed the words I had told him--how proud I was of him, then I wanted to focus on that. I wanted this hike to be known as a victory. The Mama Bear inside calmed down, and my anger and protectiveness melted away. I did want to mention it to his teacher, but more to help her be aware of what had happened, so that maybe they could do things differently for next year.We've talked about the hike, since that day. We focus on the getting up part, not the falling. We focus on the finish line, not the part where he was left by his peers who didn't know what he was experiencing. We focus on the courage it takes to keep going, one foot in front of the other up the mountain, driven by this God-given gift of his big personality that pushes his tight, but weak muscles to move forward. And every dang time I talk to him about it, I cry. I am so grateful I get to be this amazing boy's mom, and watch him learn how to pick himself back up, focus on the victories, and keep going.

Sunday, August 9, 2015

Leaving:
In the early hours of tomorrow morning, Ben will leave for field training. For the next 3 weeks he will be gone Monday-Friday, jumping out of helicopters, crawling through trenches, getting tear gassed, shooting guns, and other exciting and really tough things, and will come home Saturday's and Sunday's.
We're all feeling a little sad because not only will we miss him, but this is the first year he won't be there for the kids' first day of school. That may not be a big deal for some, but it is for us--we recognize we're still living in the years our kids WANT us to be there with them their first day, and we know this won't last forever.

.........

A Gift:

Our daughter Leah was born with the Gift of Making Everything Magic. From the time she was a baby, she could entertain herself with the most simple things like a piece of paper, or a rubber band, or her own fingers because she would see them with eyes that turned them into butterflies, fairies and dolphins. This is what I love most about her, yet some days I worry. I know too well the world can be a harsh place for those who see things not as they are, but as what they can become.

I know, because I was born with this Gift too.

........

An Ugly side of me:

As a young girl, I was an optimist. I remember feeling happy almost all of the time. I loved easily, sang and danced my way through my days, was surrounded by friends, lost myself inside of a book, laughed a lot, and lived in my imagination. I believed the world was full of Good and Beauty, and I believed I was going to become someone amazing when I grew up.

Little by little, I began to change. Vividly traumatic moments, cruel words, lies, hypocrisy, anger, and volatile tempers taught me to bury this Gift, replacing it with Fear into my world. I tried to hold on and trust in the Good, but with each passing year, as the circumstances remained and continually broke pieces of my optimistic heart, this became more and more difficult.

I became an anxious, insecure, and wary version of myself, but kept these things hidden. I could no longer sing or dance in front of others on my own, I had to have the safety of a group. I hated the spotlight being on me, I was too insecure to stand in it. The friends I had I believed deserved better than me, so I worked to become someone who could make them laugh, so at least I could contribute something.

My anxiety and low self worth exhibited itself as not setting goals I felt I was not good enough to achieve. I felt comfortable in allowing myself to sit in the path of least resistance when it came to academics, dating, jobs, and plans for college. I no longer dreamed big dreams for myself.

I longed for affection, but was taught and grew to believe that anyone who showed me attention only did because they wanted something from me, and would take advantage of my easily trusting heart. So, I trained myself to stop searching for love built from respect, and allowed myself to fit this role, to be used for another's purposes.

I formed an outer shell called Prepare For The Worst. This became my protection from pain, contention, and the Dark parts of the world I had come to understand too closely. This shell served as the way I separated from the Darkness and did not allow it to drown me. If I was prepared for it, it could not hurt, or disappoint me. This is what I told myself.

Then, I met Ben.

Well, I re-met him, after we had grown up and out of high school and all of the shallow facades we live in during that time. I re-met him during a time we were both Searching. For ourselves, for something real, for some way to be who we had been born to be--who we had protected inside for so long with the Shells we created to survive. I came to realize he had seen even more Darkness than me, and was shocked at this knowledge because for me, he was Sunshine. He had a Light that had somehow survived all he had been through, and when I was with him, it was contagious.

It took time, but eventually my Prepare For The Worst shell began to crack, as time and again through our dating and married life, I've found that Light can not only survive Darkness, it can overcome, and shine through it.

So, I have worked to find myself again. Habits are hard to break though, and I have stumbled and fallen backwards in my climb. But I have found my footing, and not stopped climbing.

It has been tricky at times. The shell that once protected me was no longer needed, but I knew there was no going back to my naive childhood. I had to find a balance of a thicker skin while keeping a soft heart, of seeing through the broken pieces of others, while still being wise to not let their broken pieces take me down with them. And lately I've been really working on a balance of using common sense and knowledge of the World and its Dark and Ugly, combined with an adult-sized Faith and optimism that regardless of any circumstances, God and I make a great team.

As a wife and mother and individual, I am still working. Right now I really want that optimism back, that Gift I pushed down and buried so long ago in order to protect it.

I've been thinking about this, as I've been preparing for Ben to be gone. I feel like emotionally that protective shell is trying to return, out of fear. New situations always add a piece of overwhelming for me, and since everything right now falls into that category in my life (finding doctors, babysitters, registering for new schools, meeting new neighbors, making new friends, finding my way/getting lost basically everywhere), I can feel the need to protect, to pre-stress, to worry, and to walk myself through the worst case scenarios while he's away sitting on the edges of my thoughts.

Protect, protect, protect.

Some form of protection is good, healthy, and necessary. My form though, causes me to isolate and build walls. To not let people in, to not emotionally connect. To not be my best real, vulnerable self.

I don't want this. Not for me, not for my kids, not for Ben, not for our lives. I may never be the carefree child I used to be, but I still have that Gift--I still believe in the Magic. I'm surrounded by it every day, when I'm out of my shell and looking for it, I always find it.

And so, for the next 3 weeks while he is gone, I will be looking for Magic and documenting it. Even on the hard or overwhelming days--especially on those. I don't want the time that I have with the family I've helped create and absolutely adore, to go to waste in the land of fear, guilt, stressing, and insecurity. I've given too many of my good years over to those anyway, they don't deserve an extra three weeks.

Thursday, July 23, 2015

For years I struggled to find my goodness, beauty, or worth--on an intrinsic level. I did not believe I deserved good things, mostly Love that came from not having to do anything or be anyone. Love that came from just merely existing.

I have worked hard to learn differently--to change habits and thought patterns I have used for years. These habits that used to feel so comfortable but ones I recognize have failed me, because they have taught me to live a life as less of a person than I could potentially become. Than who I actually AM. And though there are some days they creep back in and whisper and try to force me back down into momentarily believing I have nothing worthwhile to add to the world, overall I feel I have won--and am continuing to win--this battle. I have the choice to listen to the whispers, or I have the choice to fight. Daily I choose to fight.

As an introvert, birthdays have been difficult for me. There are a lot of moments of being in the spotlight, with presents, songs, parties. But compounded with my struggle to feel my worth, my birthday was a day I wanted to avoid altogether. It was an actual celebration of ME, which challenged all of my years of internal struggle. Ben and I joked that my ideal birthday would be spent alone in a dark bedroom reading books, with zero celebration. Only I wasn't joking.

Today I woke up next to one of the best men I've ever known, a man who has spent the last 12 years telling me and showing me that I am beautiful and lovable. Not once has he given me a reason to question how he feels about me. I was bombarded with three kids yelling HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Begging me to find the presents they had hid around the house. I picked up a sweet, beautiful baby whose arms outstretched for mine with a big smile on her face. The love I have for my children and the love they have for me has been a reflection of God's love since the day I first held them. I went throughout my day with phone calls, texts, and messages coming through on my phone. Packages were delivered to me from friends and family.

The whispers were also there today, telling me I don't deserve this love, telling me I am not worth being celebrated. Telling me to not let the actions and words to sink in. I worked hard to shut them out, to focus on the life that I have, and on who I actually AM.

I am a good person. It's taken me 35 years to be able to type words that probably seem so easy for others. That's okay--they have their own struggle. This is mine.

I'm a good person who is healing wounds created long ago. I started the healing for my children, so they could be taught a different way. For my husband, who deserved a better wife than I felt I was. For all of the people who had to interact with a girl who apologized too much, felt guilty too often, whose actions were mostly made out of fear of not being accepted and liked. A girl who could not let their love sink all the way in. But as I worked, and began to patch myself back together, my perspective changed.

My focus is no longer on them, to make myself better so I can be better for them--I am here for me. I am fighting for me, I am healing for me, I am working for me. The relationships in my life will be positively affected by this change, but I am here for me. I am worth saving.

On a Tuesday morning, I pressed my nose to the glass cutout in our new front door. Cars zoomed forward, then slowed as they braked for the speed bump, right in front of our house. There was a lot of life moving around, just feet away from where I stood. For me though, the life was foreign and felt very overwhelming. I watched for a few minutes more, just like this. Nose to glass, sighing every now and then. Feeling the weight of it all.We had rolled into San Antonio in the early evening the day before. Ben, Caleb and Claire were ahead in the minivan while Leah, June and I followed in our white car. It had been a long 3 day trip full of sad goodbyes, dead car batteries, washing laundry in a hotel until 2 am, and trading off sleeping sideways on a queen-sized bed next to two extremely rowdy little sleepers. We had fun along the way though, mixed into the normal chaos. Frozen yogurt stops, swimming, and dance parties to loud music in the car. I stared at the green trees lining the highway as we drove through our new city, trying hard to tell myself that one day this would all be familiar instead of new and somewhat intimidating. As we turned onto our new street, kids playing soccer scattered out of the way of our caravan-ing cars. This is good, I thought. Lots of families. We parked in front of our new home, and I took a picture as the three oldest kids ran up the green front yard onto our porch. Ben found the hidden key, and unlocked it. I could hear the squeals and yells of excitement as they barreled through the entryway. I picked up Claire from where she was waiting patiently in her car seat, handed her to Ben, and walked into our new home.

We searched each room, noticing the size of them, the insides of the closets, the number of sinks. It had a good feeling inside of it, with a lot of space and light. We walked out on the back porch, and I smiled at all of the green facing us. There were no homes behind ours, just masses of trees so thick you couldn't see through to the other side of them.

Ben, Caleb and I unpacked our cars, and met neighbors who came outside to introduce themselves. Our first family meal was Chick-Fil-A, eaten at 10 pm, while sitting on the floor. Then we unrolled sleeping bags, brushed teeth, changed clothes, said a family prayer, and after finally winding down from the excitement, fell asleep.

It has now been almost 3 weeks since the first morning we woke up in our new house, and I pressed my nose to the glass on a Tuesday. Some people look at a big move to a big city as a big adventure. Ben is one of them. I am not--but I'm trying. I signed on to this move, with 100% support, knowing it would be difficult for my personality. I am a lover of comfort zones, and for the past few years have felt such an intense need for setting down roots that the knowledge we are still several more years and a couple of more moves away from that makes me want to openly weep and then crawl into a hole. And then take a big long nap. (But that last part is irrelevant--naps always sound like a great idea, to me.)

The three weeks here have been nothing short of a little ridiculous. The first week, Claire got a major fever, then June started up right behind her. Soon every single one of our family was hit with some sort of a major flu bug, except for me. June and Claire had it the worst, I have never seen June this sick. Every night she would throw up from coughing, and her fever was 104 for 4 full days. We had no insurance, no money, no belongings aside from one pillow and blanket for everyone, a few toys, some clothes, a couple of towels, a T.V. and a very small amount of kitchen supplies. When June would throw up on what we had brought, we would do laundry in one of the bathroom tubs, and went without our own pillows and blankets.

The second week, we discovered a mold problem in our master bathroom. We're grateful they repaired it quickly, but this entire week was spent cooped up while waiting for them to finish. Two days ago, we found a scorpion in Caleb's room. After panicking a bit and trying to find creative ways to remove everything off of the floors we had been using as our dressers, we got a pest control company in here and bought traps. Fingers crossed the scorpions are managed.

We are on week three now, still without our belongings. Luckily, Ben is finally a legit member of the army, we have insurance, our friends lent us a card table, chairs, and a couple of games, June is back to her hilarious self, we were paid a portion of our move reimbursement, we are learning to live with less, and I have finally made peace with the laundromat and the homeless "regulars" who initially terrified me. Not only that, but we've felt the love of our family and friends from far away. They have checked in on us with phone calls, and texts, sent letters or packages...and those things have meant the absolute world to us.

This life will take some getting used to, I know. It will take a lot of pushing and stretching, again. These are the parts that are uncomfortable, but bring the most growth--when I can look back at them.

In the meantime, I'm trying to stay sane in this big, empty house that I can't feel settled into yet without our pictures and curtains and furniture. I'm trying to get out and drive and find libraries and parks and fun things for our kids to do. I'm trying to not let loneliness swallow me up, and walk outside to meet neighbors and make an effort.

San Antonio is beautiful, and the people of Texas are friendly, and I'm trying. And it will take time.

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About Me

nicknamed "midge," short for midget... though i'm not one, but i'm close.
i don't love capitalizing, but twitch over incorrect grammar. a lover of music, sweaters, books, photography, naps, pesto, writing, rainy days, stimulating and deep conversation, the ocean, laughter, nutella, and the oregon coast.
married 13 years to a man who likes to express himself through his facial hair and an addiction to cheese, a mother to an intelligent and easily excitable 10 yr old son with cerebral palsy, a 6 yr old daughter full of imagination, sassiness and laughter, a 4 year old hilarious introvert, and our curly-haired sweet but fiesty 1 year old.
this is where i write about surviving as a wife of a doctoral student in the heat of arizona, our move to doctoral internship in texas, pooping adventures, overcoming challenges, overgrown backyard weeds, continual growth and self-awareness in therapy, family love and sibling fights.
currently on a journey of self-discovery, self-worth and acceptance.
i have a tendency to ramble.